Hey everybody!

This is my first fanfiction, so I'm kind of new to this. I don't really know where I'm heading yet with this story, so I'll be making that up as I go. Any suggestions are welcome. As are any possible corrections. English is not my native language, so there could be some mistakes here and there, and I'd love to improve my English, so help is always welcomed.
Also I do not own any of the characters or the settings, at least in this chapter, all credits go to C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien and Christopher Paolini, for their wonderful creations.
I hope you'll like my story, enjoy reading it. I hope to update as often as possible, but make no promises on regularity.

Love,
BitterStrength

CHAPTER 1

They were sitting on the platform, waiting for the train to take them to school, four children. Four children who, on the outside didn't seem to be of any importance at all, but if one looked a little closer, one could see they held themselves as any royal might, which, in fact, was exactly what they were. They were High King Peter the Magnificent, Queen Susan the Gentle, King Edmund the Just and Queen Lucy the Valiant of Narnia.

But for now, they were just brothers and sisters, quarrelling about the fight Peter had just participated in, whilst sitting on an old wooden bench.

"You're welcome," Edmund said, bitterly.

"I had it sorted," Peter retorted, before rising and walking over to the edge of the platform.

"What was it this time?" Susan sighed.

"He bumped me."

"So you hit him?" Lucy asked, astounded.

"No. After he bumped me, they tried to make me apologise. That's when I hit him."

"Really, is it that hard just to walk away?" Susan asked.

"I shouldn't have to. I mean, don't you ever get tired of being treated like a kid?"

"We are kids," Edmund stated.

"Well, I wasn't always," Peter said. "It's been a year. How long does he expect us to wait?" He sat back down.

"I think it's time to accept that we live here. It's no use pretending any different," Susan told her siblings.

They were all silent for a little time, three of them looking at their hands or feet. Susan, however, was looking around and all of a sudden saw a boy she had no interest in talking to. "Oh no," she murmured. "Pretend you're talking to me."

"We are talking to you," answered Edmund.

Suddenly Lucy cried out as if in pain and rose from her seat.

"Quiet, Lu," Susan commanded.

"Something pinched me!" Lucy answered, indignantly.

"Hey, stop pulling me," Peter exclaimed, casting a look at Edmund.

"I'm not touching you," said Edmund.

"Look, would all of you just –" Susan started. "What is that?" she then asked, for she, too, had felt something.

Just then the train entered the station, rushing by, making it hard to understand one another.

"It feels like magic," Lucy answered her.

"Quick, everybody, hold hands," Susan ordered, unsure of what was happening, but unwilling to risk losing her family.

"I'm not holding your hand," Edmund yelled at his older brother, who stood beside him, reaching for him.

Peter ignored him and grabbed his hand. "Just…"

The train rushed by, not slowing down. Then, the entire platform started to fall apart, tiles being ripped away from the walls, lamps moving with the wind, papers flying everywhere.

But, when looking at the other people on the platform, it seemed like they were the only ones who noticed.

A couple minutes later, they were no longer on the platform, but in a cave, or so it seemed, with light coming from one end.

They let go of each other's hands and as a union walked outside, and found themselves looking upon an unfamiliar site.

Meanwhile, far away, a blue dragon and her Rider stood in the courtyard of a city. The city was called Feinster and just a little earlier, the Rider and dragon had flown in from Du Weldenvarden to find the Varden, the free people of Alagaësia, whom they had joined many a battle before, standing in front of the city, desperate to find an entrance to the city, for else, all would be lost.

Now the Varden were roaming the streets of the city, winning almost every encounter with the Empire's soldiers.

The Rider, whose name is Eragon Shadeslayer, son of Brom, had turned the tide in the battle, together with his dragon, Saphira Brightscales, daughter of Vervada. Now all that was left for them to do was storm the keep and capture the patroness of the city, Lady Lorana.

By now, Blödhgarm and his fellow elves, the elven guard appointed to protect the last free Dragon and Rider, had joined Eragon and Saphira in the courtyard, but Eragon ignored them and looked for Arya. When he spotted her, running alongside Jörmundur on his charger, Eragon hailed her and brandished his shield to attract her attention.

Arya heeded his call and loped over, her stride as graceful as a gazelle's. She had acquired a shield, a full-sized helm, and a mail hauberk since they had parted, and the metal of her armour gleamed in the grey half-light that pervaded the city. As she drew to a stop, Eragon said, "Saphira and I are going to enter the keep from above and try to capture Lady Lorana. Do you want to come with us?"

Arya agreed with a terse nod.

Springing from the ground onto one of Saphira's front legs, Eragon climbed into her saddle. Arya followed his example an instant later and sat close behind him, the links of her hauberk pressing against his back.

Saphira unfurled her velvety wings and took flight, leaving Blödhgarm and the other elves gazing up at her with looks of frustration.

"You should not abandon your guards so lightly," Arya murmured in Eragon's left ear. She wrapped her sword arm around his waist and held him tightly as Saphira wheeled above the courtyard.

Before Eragon could respond, he felt the touch of Glaedr's vast mind. For a moment, the city below vanished, and he saw and felt only what Glaedr saw and felt.

Little-stinging-hornet-arrows bounced off his belly as he rose above the scattered wood-caves of the two-legs-round-ears. The air was smooth and firm beneath his wings, perfect for the flying he would need to do. On his back, the saddle rubbed against his scales as Oromis altered his position.

Glaedr flicked his tongue out and tasted the enticing aroma of burnt-wood-cooked-meat-spilled-blood. He had been to this place many times before. In his youth, it had been known by a different name than Gil'ead, and then the only inhabitants had been the somber-laughing-quick-tongued-elves and the friends of elves. His previous visits had always been pleasant, but it pained him to remember the two nest-mates who had died here, slain by the twisted-mind-Forsworn.

The lazy-one-eye-sun hovered just above the horizon. To the north, the big-water-Isenstar was a rippling sheet of polished silver. Below, the herd of pointed-ears commanded by Islanzadi was arrayed around the broken-anthill-city. Their armour glittered like crushed ice. A pall of blue smoke lay over the whole area, thick as cold morning mist.

And from the south, the small-angry-rip-claw-Thorn winged his way toward Gil'ead, bellowing his challenge for all to hear. Morzan-son-Murtagh sat upon his back, and in Murtagh's right hand, Zar'roc shone as bright as a nail.

Sorrow filled Glaedr as he beheld the two miserable hatchlings. He wished he and Oromis did not have to kill them. Once more, he thought, dragon must fight dragon and Rider must fight Rider, and all because of that egg-breaker-Galbatorix. His mood grim, Glaedr quickened his flapping and spread his claws in preparation for tearing at his oncoming foes.

Eragon's head whipped on his neck as Saphira lurched to one side and dropped a score of feet before she regained her equilibrium. Did you see that as well? she asked.

I did. Worried, Eragon glanced back at the saddlebags, where Glaedr's heart of hearts was hidden, and wondered if he and Saphira should try to help Oromis and Glaedr but then reassured himself with the knowledge that there were numerous spellcasters among the elves. His teachers would not want for assistance.

"What is wrong?" asked Arya, her voice loud in Eragon's ear.

Oromis and Glaedr are about to fight Thorn and Murtagh, said Saphira.

Eragon felt Arya stiffen against him. "How do you know?" she asked.

"I'll explain later. I just hope they don't get hurt."

"As do I," said Arya.

Saphira flew high above the keep, and then floated downward on silent wings towards the spire of the tallest tower. Before she could reach it, however, she had to first pass through a cloud. But when they had passed through the cloud, they found themselves looking upon a mountainside instead of the tower.

As they took in the sight, they heard a voice in the air, singing with a melancholic tone; "Home is behind, the world ahead. And there are many paths to tread. Through shadow, to the edge of night, until the stars are all alight. Mist and shadow, cloud and shade, all shall fade. All shall fade."

"Barzûl, where are we?" Eragon cursed. "And whose was that voice?"

"I do not know. This is unlike any part of Alagaësia that I know. And that voice, I don't know." Arya replied.

Little ones, look, Saphira said to them. When they looked to where Saphira was referring, they saw four children leave a cave in the mountain. Maybe they can tell us where we are and how we can get back and perhaps who was singing.

They then proceeded descending towards the children, hoping for answers.

A little earlier, not so far away, two horses made their way through the mountains, carrying a dwarf, an elf and a man. They were taking the road to the Dimholt, the door under the mountain.

"What kind of army would linger in such a place?" wondered the dwarf, whose name was Gimli, son of Glóin.

"One that is cursed," the elf told him. He was Legolas Greenleaf, prince of Mirkwood and the Woodland Realm and son of King Thranduil. He was clad in browns and greens, whilst his long blond hair fell across his shoulders and back. "Long ago, the Men of the Mountain swore an oath to the last King of Gondor… to come to his aid, to fight. But when the time came, when Gondor's need was dire, they fled… vanishing into the darkness of the mountain… And so Isildur cursed them… never to rest, until they had fulfilled their pledge." Suddenly he seemed as if in trance and spoke, "Who shall call them from the grey twilight, the forgotten people? The heir of him to whom the oath they swore, from the North shall he come, need shall drive him, he shall pass the door to the Paths of the Dead."

While Legolas said this, the man looked around suspiciously, for he was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, a descendent of Númenor, a Chieftain of the Dúnedain and the heir to the throne of Gondor.

They rode on in silence until they reached their destination, the door to the Paths of the Dead, situated underneath the Dwimorberg.

"The very warmth of my blood seems stolen away," muttered Gimli upon seeing the door into the passageway.

"The way is shut," Legolas said, translating the markings upon the passageway. "It was made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it. The way is shut."

Just then, a gust of wind came from within the mountain, through the door, scaring the horses who pulled their reigns from their masters and fled.

"Brego!" Aragorn shouted, hoping to make the horse return to him, but it was no use. Giving up, he then turned back to the door. "I do not fear death!" he said forcefully before marching through the entrance, disappearing into the darkness of the mountain.

Legolas hesitated for a second, but then, determined yet silent, followed his friend inside.

This left Gimli alone before the door. "Well this is something unheard of!" he murmured to himself. "An elf would go underground, where a dwarf dare not? Ah… I'd never hear the end of it!" He, too, entered the mountain, albeit not very happily.

The three friends then found themselves wandering inside with Aragorn holding a torch he had just lit. There was mist seeping across the floor and the eerie and tense atmosphere could almost be tasted.

"What is it?" Gimli inquired from Legolas as the latter looked around carefully. "What do you see?"

"I see shapes of men," Legolas answered. "And of horses."

"Where?"

"Pale banners like shreds of clouds. Spears rise like winter-thickets through a shroud of mist. The Dead are following. They have been summoned."

Gimli cast fearful looks around himself. "The Dead? Summoned? I knew that! Huh. Huh. Very good. Very good." He then realised that the others had already moved along. "Legolas!" the dwarf yelled, scared to be left behind.

As they continued their way, white ghostly and ethereal hands started to appear. They frightened the dwarf who blew at them to keep them away, which at first appeared to help. The hands persisted, however, and continuously frightened the poor dwarf.

The elf and man turned around to look at the hands. Whilst they did this, Aragorn happened to look down. He quickly said to the others, "Don't look down."

Gimli, being a typical stubborn dwarf, of course ignored the advice and looked down. And what he saw there did not encourage him, for it were human skulls. Trying to do as little harm to the skulls as possible, he hastily followed the elf and man until they came across a large open space.

"Who enters my domain?" a dead voice echoed through the area.

Aragorn turned and the King of the Dead appeared before him.

"One who will have your allegiance," Aragorn told him.

"The Dead do not suffer the living to pass."

"You will suffer me!"

The King laughed and, all around the three friends and companions, laughter appeared as one by one the Dead emerged.

"The way is shut," the King said, while the army gathered closer and closer. "It was made by those who are dead. And the dead keep it. The way is shut. Now you must die!"

Legolas could no longer stand idly, watching how they would die by the hands of the Dead. He notched an arrow and shot the King through his head. But the arrow merely passed through the King, doing him no harm, and clattered against the ground.

"I summon you to fulfil your oath," Aragorn spoke, whilst walking toward the King.

"None but the King of Gondor may command me!" the King said, angered by Aragorn's bravery. He then swung his sword towards the man who had dared to command him in an attempt to kill him.

Aragorn, however, lifted his sword, Andúril, which was forged from the shards of Narsil, also known as the Sword of Elendil. The sword of the King and Andúril collided, which was not expected by the King.

"That blade was broken!" the King stammered.

"It has been remade," Aragorn replied before grabbing the King by his throat and pushing him back. "Fight for us, and regain your honour. What say you?" He then turned to face the rest of the army. "What say you?"

"Argh! You waste your time, Aragorn. They had no honour in life and they have none now in death," Gimli grumbled.

"I am Isildur's heir. Fight for me and I will hold your oaths fulfilled. What say you?"

The King laughed and he and his army slowly disappeared.

"You have my word! Fight and I will release you from this living death! What say you?"

"Stand you traitors!" Gimli yelled as the last of the Dead vanished.

Then, a cracking sound was heard and the walls of the buildings in the area began to collapse and hundreds of human skulls fell down towards them.

"Out!" Aragorn yelled.

They climbed and slid their way through the skulls towards the exit.

"Legolas! Run!" Aragorn yelled.

They only just managed to exit the caves before the ceiling and walls collapsed.

As they emerged from the caves, they looked at the scene in front of them. There were 4 children standing there and a magnificent beast, carrying two people on the back landed in front of them.

Just then, Aragorn, as he looked past that strange and marvellous site, saw the river and sank to his knees as he gazed upon the many ships with black sails carrying the Corsairs of Umbar, which were just passing a burning village. Legolas approached him and placed his hand on his shoulder while both he and Gimli felt dread overcome them as they took in the sight.

But when they thought themselves completely deprived of hope, a sound was heard behind Aragorn, who turned and saw the King of the Dead approach him.

"We fight," the King said.

Translation:

Ancient Language:
Barzûl = a curse in the dwarfish language from Alagaësia